


The Beginning of Something Big.

by Ultra_chrome



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-28
Updated: 2007-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultra_chrome/pseuds/Ultra_chrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World Juniors was just the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beginning of Something Big.

**Author's Note:**

>  I'm not entirely sure why I'm doing this. Perhaps I have some kind of disease that makes me join challenge comms and then write stuff to a deadline so that I can read it back later and think... "Why?" Perhaps I just suck.
> 
> Thanks to [](http://el-plato-sucio.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://el-plato-sucio.livejournal.com/) **el_plato_sucio** for checking this over for me, particularly the French.

Sometimes you can just tell that something big’s about to happen. Like when you win a face off and pass it back to Gonch and you just _know_ he’s going to rifle off a slapper straight into the back of the net. As soon as the puck leaves your stick, you can just _feel_ it’s going to be good. It doesn’t happen often, but maybe that’s for the best, because I’ve heard too much of a good thing is bad for you.

 

 

Beginnings are good. They’re the best part of most things. I can’t get enough of that little rush you get when you first step out onto the ice for a game. It can all go to hell pretty fast, but the next game that feeling is still there, making your vision clearer and your heart beat faster. Everything is heightened and you feel invincible.

 

 

The same goes for relationships. I’m young, but I’ve kissed enough people to know that the first kiss is usually the best. That’s the one that takes your breath away and makes your heart race. That’s the one where you get hard at the first touch of tongue on tongue. That’s the one that makes people think they’re in love.

 

 

Kissing is great. It’s the most fun a guy can have off ice with his clothes still on. I do it a lot. Which is probably why it gets old pretty fast. The newness wears off or something. The instant boner comes less and less often, until it takes a hand down your shorts to make your dick want to play. By then I’m usually looking for a way out. I don’t settle for less than everything. I don’t do it in hockey and I won’t do it in the rest of my life. Some things demand all or nothing. If kissing someone gets old, you’ve got to go further or move on. I think if you go further, then that’s just going to get boring too, eventually. Then what’s left? I decided pretty early on to fool around, but not go all the way until I was sure, you know?

 

 

All through school, it was pretty easy to get kissed. Girls like hockey players, especially when they think they’ll be able to watch NHL games in a few years and say, “I dated him.” Everyone was so sure I was going to the big show that I only had to stand still for five minutes and I’d get hit on.

 

 

Nearly every camp or away game there was a guy to lock lips with, too. Teenage boys get their kicks any way they can and when you spend so much time locked up in tiny rooms with a guy, things can happen. If they don’t, no dramas, but I never really went too long without someone to play tonsil hockey with.

 

 

Guys are the best, though. Girls seem to like feeling horny all the time. You can get them all hot and bothered and they still won’t do anything to make it better. It’s like they don’t actually want to get off. They’re always stopping play before you can score. It’s alright for them, they can still walk when they’re horny. _Their_ pants don’t get too tight. It’s not like I want to go all the way, but a hand job would be nice. I’m always willing to return the favour.

 

 

At least with guys you’ve got a good chance of getting off. Some back off a little, but those ones mostly don’t say no to jacking off with you. If you get real lucky, they’ll do it for you.

 

 

It’s not hard to get them to make the moves, either. Playing with older guys was great, because they’d all make jokes about me being the baby and being a virgin. I’d ask them for tips on how to get a girl to put out and they’d start telling me all about how to kiss and where to touch and I’d just say something like, “It’d be better if there was some way to practice.” You’d be amazed how many guys offer to show you. Like I said before, way easier than girls.

 

 

They all get boring sooner or later, though. Maybe it’s because I don’t push it too much. The girls are too much hard work. I’ve got more important things to worry about. The guys are mostly okay to a point and then you can see them start freaking out about how far they can go before they’re gay. I don’t care about that. If it feels good, I’m all for doing it. I just have to be careful of my rep is all. I’m enough of a target on the ice without rumours like that, thanks. So I just go as far as they do and then move on. The girls will brag about me and the guys are too scared to say anything in case they get ragged on about it. It’s all good.

 

 

The first time I played in the World Juniors, there was this guy. A goalie. Fleury. I’d heard of him and even sort of seen him around a bit, but hadn’t really _noticed_ him. Until after our first practice.

 

 

He smiled at me as we were coming off the ice and I got that rush. I don’t know what it was about him, but I just wanted to grab hold of him and kiss him into next week. It was the weirdest thing, to want that, instead of wanting to make _him_ want _me._ I like the cat and mouse, normally. The anticipation of waiting to see what they’ll do next. I didn’t want that with Marc. I just wanted him and I wanted him _now._ I’m a guy who usually gets what he wants, one way or another.

 

 

I flirted with him for weeks, but every time I thought I was in with a chance, he’d get this look on his face like he was trying to think about something else and then he’d be gone. He looked at me sometimes and I knew he was checking me out, just like I was checking _him_ out. It just never went anywhere.

 

 

By the end of that series, I’d locked lips with half the guys on the team, but not Marc. Not the only one I really wanted. I’ve gotta say, my ego was pretty bruised. But not as much as his. That last game killed him. It wasn’t his fault we lost, but he knew everyone was going to blame him. That’s the thing about being a goalie. You can stand on your head, but nobody cares about how the defence fell apart, or how the forwards got lazy. The goalie gets the blame. He sat out there on the bench long after the rest of us had showered and packed up our gear.

 

 

My Dad was picking me up, but I knew he’d be off talking to the coaches and stuff, so I went back out and sat down next to Marc. He didn’t say anything, just sort of leaned on me for a second and then got up and walked away.

 

 

I’d wanted to say, “it was just a bad bounce.” Or something to make him feel better, but I was starting to learn that he takes it all as seriously as I do and it doesn’t matter what anyone says. Every loss is personal.

 

 

Some guys say they feel that way, but they go out there and make the same mistake over and over. Marc does his best not to. He doesn’t settle. It’s all or nothing for him, too.

 

 

The guys all got in the bus and left me there waiting for Marc to come out of the shower. They were happy I was the one to stay behind. Nobody else wanted to have to talk to him. A couple of them were pissed at him, but mostly they just didn’t know what to say to him. Marc-Andre Fleury without a smile is a scary thing. It takes a lot of bad to make that happen.

 

 

He was under that shower for ages and I started to think about how I was going to get somewhere with him before I lost my chance. It was over and I didn’t want to leave not knowing how his lips felt. Just thinking about it got me hot and maybe I’d imagined the way he looked at me sometimes, but I thought for sure he’d be into it now that we were alone.

 

 

He came out of the shower, with his towel wrapped loosely around his waist and he stopped in the doorway and looked at me with those sad brown eyes. He was still wet and he was so hot. All lean muscle and graceful lines. Just looking at him properly for the first time made me want to taste more than his mouth. I wanted to lick every last drop of water from him. Sure, I’d wanted him right from the start, but now it was like I _had_ to have him. All of him. I just didn’t know how to make it happen. I was way out of my comfort zone here.

 

 

He said, “The bus is gone I think.” In that way he had back then. Like everything was a question.

 

 

I just nodded and stood up. I was walking over to him and he was getting closer to me and his eyes were on my mouth. I could feel that rush coming, like this was the start of something big, and I licked my lips in preparation. He reached out and placed his hand flat against my stomach, down real low, as if he were feeling for the butterflies that were swarming in there. Then he leaned down and brushed his lips so softly over mine that I still can’t be sure he actually kissed me.

 

 

“Go now, Sidney.” He said. “Maybe I will see you another time.” And then he gave me a little shove. Just enough that I knew he meant it. But I didn’t get where I am in hockey by giving up easily.

 

 

I said, “What? Is your girl here or something?” and looked around the room. He gave me this tiny smile and shook his head. So I pushed my luck a little. “This could be the last time we see each other, you know. You’ll go back to Pittsburgh next season and I don’t know where I’m going to end up. Maybe we should get it out of our system now.”

 

 

He actually laughed then, a sound full of bitterness. He turned his back on me and walked to his locker. It was the first time I’d had the guts to make an obvious move, ever, and he’d laughed and walked away. I stood there for a minute, feeling stupid and more than a little bit hurt. I wanted to make him face me, but I also wanted to run away.

 

 

In the end I just stayed where I was and said nothing. He dried himself while I stood there watching and wanting him and feeling like an idiot. The whole time he acted like he didn’t know I was there. I heard him mumble something in French, but it was too quiet for me to make out what he was saying. Probably something I didn’t want to hear, anyway.

 

 

I don’t know how long I watched him, but he was dressed and packing his gear into his bag when I heard my Dad at the door. He called me and I went to him, like I always do, but I didn’t want to leave. I said, “Marc.” And he looked up and said, “Au revoir, Sid. Merci d'avoir attendu".”

 

 

He came over to shake my hand, and I pulled him into a one arm hug, saying, “Tout le plaisir est pour moi.” And he grinned at me, a proper Fleury grin, before he said, “Next time, maybe.”

 

 

Dad reached over and shook Marc’s hand, then and said, “Good game.” Which wiped the smile right off his face. He shrugged and went back to his bag, and I hated my Dad for reminding him what had happened, even if it wasn’t deliberate.

 

 

As we walked out to the car, Dad asked me why Marc had said maybe next time when I told him it was my pleasure to stay behind, so I told him I’d asked Marc to come out to dinner with us to cheer him up. He accepted that and told me it was a nice gesture. I don’t think he knows how I am, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Sometimes Dad knows me better than I know myself.

 

 

Right then, though, all I could think about was how I could get to see Marc again. To me, “Next time, maybe.” Was like a promise. Next time, maybe meant this goodbye was just the beginning. The beginning of something big.

 

 


End file.
